YOUNG OUNG CUPID, on a musk-rose bed, His little dapper body flung; While pendant o'er his curly head, On jess'mine bough his quiver hung:
Young JESSY, fresher than the May, And purer than the mountain snow, Approach'd the god-head where he lay, ' And from the branches snatch'd his bow.
The sleeping Boy, with feather'd dart, She tickled light on ruddy cheek; • You wound,' said she, 'my little heart; • When?-you disabled urchin-speak!'
• When?-cry'd the blushing boy, alarm'dt
• Ah! when indeed-alas! or how?
• What! laugh you too at love disarm'd ?
• Why then exulting damsel-now l
A bow-see here! from myrtle lopp'd; A quiver shall my wing afford; And lo! your garter newly dropp'd, I seize on for a silken cord :'
And yet that breast, so soft and fair, To torture, JESSY, were a sin: • But plunder'd-challeng'd-have a care, 'Twang!-pretty maiden-is it in ??
• In? in? Yes! yes! unerring boy, And prithee let it there remain;
• I wou'd not lose the painful joy;
• Oh no t-nor yet the pleasing pain.
WRITTEN AT AN INN, WAITING THE ARRIVAL OF
o thee, oh *** !-who now in drab great coat, Much worse for wear, and boots much worse I deem, With caxon old on head, and rusty hat, Close pack'd in whirling vehicle call'd Mail, From City NORWICH, hastening here to join, Thy waiting friend at Head of Saracen;
Fam'd Inn on CHALMER's banks-where erst and oft, The light wing'd hours have pass'd not useless by, I dedicate these lays-at eight at night, A night in LONDON fam'd for Lord Mayor's ball, For mad'ning folly, pageantry and noise, But here for sweet retirement and the Muse; (If in an inn the chaste nymph ever stray'd; If such an inn retirement can be call'd, Where bustle reigns, and bells incessant ring.) And oh, my friend! if points of knotty law, Nor converse sweet with some bewitching girl; With amorous widow, as bewitching quite, Whose knees in closest contact come with thine,
By sly design, necessity, or chance, By motion jostled, or desire impell'd,
Forming soft friction with the ticklish thigh : Nor yet the rougher talk of tiresome man Molest-nor Morpheus with his heavy hand, Thine eye-lids close, -if none of these disturb, Delight, nor yet the wand'ring thought divert,- Think on impatient me, who waits thee here; And as thou ruminating call'st to mind,
What tedious difficulties once we met,
And yet may meet with ***** **, *******, **** Who most reluctantly our views embrac'd,- T' alleviate all-as all is nearly o'er,
Think also on the luscious fare, my friend, Of sweet veal-cutlets, and of bacon fine, Some sav'ry slices-gravy, brown, and rich, T' enhance the worth of mash'd potatoes; That dainty food on which full oft we've fed, Which I have order'd, and shall soon fall to :- Nor deem that all-a cheerful well-made fire, Attendance good-good porter too and ale, Slippers and elbow chair-nay more than that, Of Port a pint, to spur the purple tide, That circles thro' the heart-but circles slow ;- But shou'd these fail, the dreary hours to cheer, Between the present now and three o'clock, When Molly much expects the pleasing task, To let thee in and light thee to thy room, Where well-air'd bed, and ev'ry needful stands
Retiring then herself (saluted first,Custom in inns I wot, but seldom broke ;) To lose in slumber all fatigues and cares, Of emptying ******* ****, and making bedsThat in the morning early she may rise, And cleanly make those unclean things again; Then with soft hand well wash'd, receive the fee, The liberal fee which ev'ry traveller gives, In nice proportion to the damsel's charms, Who takes a curtsey in return-perhaps a kiss; For under greater contributions, I Will not suppose they wou'd a fair maid lay, Oh no! nor if impos'd-that she wou'd grant I To him who more imagines, honi soit : If these delight thee not-call but to mind, The magic mischief of a smart green coat, The waistcoat all of silk, and powder'd bob, In painted box now most securely pack'd, And by thyself in ample coach-boot stow'd,
Etceteras too innumerable:
What has been, may be-more-much more; Thine eye possesses yet its youthful fire,
And every rusting grace once furbish'd up,
Wou'd surely kill-woman has passion- Skill hast thou to wake it and retain :
For me-who want no more than what I have,
* money which I long to chink,)
My pulse beats regular-nor more desires,
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